To Offer Solace
by charleygirl
Summary: The world is changing. Watson knows it, and tries to comfort his friend.


**Author's Note:** I'm not quite sure where this came from. It's angsty fluff, or fluffy angst, if there is indeed such a thing.

**Usual Disclaimer:** I own nothing, it's all ACD's. Well, apart from Jacko.

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**TO OFFER SOLACE**

Jacko was a ragged little thing, scrawny and obviously well-loved, his fur mangy and coming off in patches. He had clearly been mended more than once: an arm sewn back here, tail replaced there, his gaudily-striped waistcoat neatly stitched where it had been rent almost right through. In truth, he was a creature only a small child could feel affection for, with a cheery grin which had become dangerously close to a leer by the mismatched set of his button eyes, one of which had been attached slightly lower down than the other. I could not help but smile when I saw him, however, remembering a similar toy monkey given to me as a present by an uncle long ago, and carried everywhere until he literally fell apart.

This one sat upon my desk, left behind by the tiny son of a patient who had called upon me at home rather than making the trip to the surgery. I resolved to return him to his rightful owner at once, but found myself thwarted in my plans by a sprained ankle and fractured wrist gained in the pursuit of a burglar the night before. Holmes had not wanted me to follow, intending to trap the man by means of his own devising, but he had not seen the pistol in the blackguard's pocket – I did, and gave chase through the abandoned warehouse only to trip over a length cord drawn across the doorway, laid by an accomplice and invisible in the gloom. The fall was a great shock, and the resulting injury put me out of action, leaving me at 221B with Jacko and Holmes to conclude the investigation alone, a situation with which he felt less than comfortable. It was a long time since I had not been there at his side.

The case was a complex one, and had been consuming his attention for nigh-on a week. As usual he took no care of his health, pushing himself, barely eating or sleeping for days at a time, and I knew that he was close to collapse. When we were younger it would perhaps not have mattered so much, but over the years he had grown used to my presence and participation, and I could see that my failure to be there at the denouement had shaken him. Though I assured him that I would be back on my feet in no time, I could see the hesitation and worry in his eyes, something that would have been unthinkable in the old days. Over the past few months we each suffered injury and illness that would not have bothered us before, and I, who perhaps alone had learned how to read the words he did not say, began to believe that we were both thinking exactly the same thing: how much longer could we really keep up such a pace?

The world was changing, becoming more dangerous, and we were neither of us getting any younger. That fact had been plainly brought home to me during the Gruner case, when Holmes was attacked, beaten and left for dead by hired thugs. Such a thing would never have happened even ten years ago. I had thought about broaching the subject, but my friend lived for his work still, and though such concerns might sometimes come tapping at the door of his conscience, he would wave them aside and plough on regardless. Or would do until something forced him to stop and think. I did not wish to be that something.

Evening drew in. Darkness fell over the sitting room. I did not bother to light the gas, content to doze on the sofa and await Holmes's return. My injuries were such that I did not feel equal to the task of climbing the stairs to my bedroom, not just now at any rate. In the red glow from the dying coals in the grate I could see Jacko, smiling his lop-sided smile.

"Everything is simple for you, isn't it?" I said aloud. "No cares, no worries, just the unqualified love of a child to sustain you. How lucky you are."

Unsurprisingly, the monkey did not reply, and soon afterwards I fell asleep.

It was late, after two, when I was awoken by the front door closing below. I listened to Holmes's weary footsteps in the hall, taking the seventeen stairs with unexpected slowness. Things could not have gone well. I raised myself to a sitting position in anticipation of his entrance, the tale of the night's adventures on his lips, but instead, to my surprise, he slipped into his room through the landing door and shut it quietly behind him.

For some time I waited, but he did not appear. I heard him moving about, opening and closing drawers as softly as possible, heard the faint creak of bedsprings as he sat down. At length the light of the candle he had lit was extinguished, and all fell silent in the room beyond. My heart sank as I lay back down, folding my hands behind my head. This would make the third failure in a month. The rate, while still low, was exponentially increasing. The nature of the game had altered, and we were becoming less able to keep up.

I dozed again, fitfully, until the pale light of dawn began to seep through my closed eyelids. For a moment I thought it was the coming of the morning that had woken me, until I heard the soft cry from the adjoining room. With an effort I heaved myself up from the sofa, reaching for my stick with my undamaged hand. The cry came again as I hobbled across the room to Holmes's door – I knocked gently upon the wood but there was no reply and so I turned the handle. In the grey, early-morning light I could see that my exhausted friend had finally succumbed to sleep, but it appeared to be anything but restful. His head rolled on the pillow, his forehead lined and his face drawn. Beneath his breath he muttered words I could not make out.

In all the years of our friendship, never did I manage to assist Holmes in the hardest battle he ever fought, the one against the demons in his own mind. Though I tried many times to help, it was a struggle for him alone. With a sigh, I retreated to the sitting room to awkwardly pull the heavy afghan from the back of the sofa. As I did I stumbled, coming up against my desk and knocking Jacko to the floor. Bending with an effort I picked him up and tucked him into my pocket almost without thinking before making my slow way back to Holmes's side.

I laid the blanket over him, noticing that he had not even bothered to change out of his clothes before sinking onto the bed. His tie was askew, his collar crushed, the waistcoat beneath muddy and rumpled. There was a graze to his cheekbone and fresh bruising across the knuckles of his left hand. He gave a tiny whimper like a distressed child, his features contracting, long fingers clenching the fabric of the coverlet beneath him. I bent over his to gently stroke his brow – an action which usually had a soothing effect - and something tumbled onto the blanket between us, something small and furry and smiling. Upon impulse I lifted the monkey and slipped him under Holmes's arm. After a moment, he unconsciously drew the toy towards him, curling up around it. His gaunt face relaxed, just a little, and so did I. Drawing up a chair I sat down beside him and watched the sun come up through the heavy veil of the curtains.

Times were changing, but at least we still had each other.

**FIN**


End file.
